


i won't make the same mistakes

by dylovan



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Angst, Gen, Not Slash, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylovan/pseuds/dylovan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murderface knows it's selfish, but he wants Toki back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i won't make the same mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> i was feeling sort of shitty and decided to write this to get the feeling out; don't read if you're triggered by suicide or any kind of self-harm, really
> 
> title comes from "If I Die Tomorrow" by Mötley Crüe

William Murderface was jolted back into reality, strange dreams of assassins and the Depths of Humanity echoing through his skull. With his eyes still closed, his left hand went to his right wrist. He groped the dry skin. It had hurt in his sleep, but there was nothing wrong with it now. 

He got out of bed. It was around 11, so he could still eat and call it breakfast; he made his way out to the living room. It was strangely silent. Nathan and Pickles were on the couch, barely paying attention to some gory horror movie. Skwisgaar was in a corner with his guitar. 

Murderface wiped sleepily at his eyes. He sat down beside Nathan on the couch, not too close. On the TV a killer slashed some woman's throat. Dark blood gushed out. William smiled. Nathan and Pickles didn't react. 

"Hey," Murderface said. "Uh, where'sh Toki?"

Pickles turned around, eyes blazing and red dreadlocks swinging. " _What?_ "

"Where'sh Toki..."

"Are you fuckin' kidding me right now?" It was pretty rare that Pickles looked at anyone with absolute disgust, but he was giving Murderface that look now. 

"No! Jeezhush, what'sh the matter?"

"He's..." Pickles trailed off. "God, Murderface, are you fucking kidding me? Don't tell me you don't remember."

"Shut up," Nathan said hoarsely. His eyes were wet. Murderface nearly did a double take. He didn't think he'd ever seen the singer cry. 

"He's...he, uh, passed away," Pickles told Murderface. 

"He's not!" Nathan yelled. He got to his feet, hair a mess, eyes circled darkly. "He's alive! He's not dead! Don't you fucking say that!"

Pickles got up too, tiny next to Nathan. "You have to fuckin' accept it, Nathan! Just deal with it! You're delusional!"

"Fuck you! He's...he's just on vacation! He'll be back any day now." Nathan almost had himself convinced. 

Pickles sighed. He wiped at his own eyes. "Nathan..." he said more gently. "You can't keep living like this."

Nathan crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at his shoes. "Any day now."

Pickles rested a hand on Nathan's broad shoulder. "Toki's never coming back. I'm sorry."

"Fuck you, Pickles!" Nathan's fist swung and collided with Pickles's temple. The drummer let out a whimper of pain and clutched at his immediately swelling eye. The singer stomped off to his room. 

Skwisgaar got up and mumbled a question to Pickles, who nodded. The two followed Nathan. As they turned to go, Skwisgaar cast an icy glance back at Murderface and growled "Nice jobs, dildo."

Murderface was left alone. 

Toki was dead?...That couldn't be possible. It must be some sort of mistake. Toki Wartooth couldn't have died...Murderface was lost in thought. He left and went to his room. 

The television was on. He fell back into bed and curled himself into the still-warm blankets, smelling of sweat and morning breath. He half-watched the news, too tired to change the channel, eyes almost closed, brain still sluggishly getting into gear. The news was something about Dethklok. 

"...passed on at the young age of 25. His cause of death was determined to be a massive overdose on prescription antidepressants, ruled death by misadventure. A private funeral will be held Thursday night. Toki Wartooth, you will be dearly missed—" Murderface turned the television off. 

It was true. Toki was dead. 

Murderface sighed and turned around and pressed his face into the pillow, not sure of what to do. 

~~~

He didn't know how much time passed before his phone rang. He wasn't going to answer at first, but the ring was too annoying; he didn't want to leave it. He sighed and found it, and picked up. It was the CFO. William didn't say anything. 

"Hello?" Charles said. "Hello? William?"

The bassist mumbled something quietly. 

"Oh, you're there." Charles sighed. "Hello. The boys told me you were having, er, a difficult time dealing with...things." He sounded just as emotionless as ever. 

William made a noncommittal grunt. 

Charles sighed, exasperated. "I want to help you, but you have to answer me."

"Is it true?" Murderface said 

"I...I'm afraid so," Charles said. 

Murderface was still silent. Charles could hear his heavy breathing. 

"If you want to talk I'll listen," said Charles. 

"How can he be dead?" Murderface said. "And...like that. Did he kill himshelf?"

"They're still looking into it."

"Anshwer me! You don't accshidentally swallow a whole bottle of pillsh. He killed himshelf, didn't he?"

"We...we think he may have," Charles said quietly. 

"But he wash sho happy all the time," Murderface said. "Alwaysh fucking with thoshe shtupid model planesh and shtuffed animalsh and...and shit. He washn't depresshed, wash he?"

"He wasn't exactly, well, happy after the death of his father," Charles said. "And William, not everybody shows their emotions as, uh, clearly as you do."

"Why didn't you shay anything?"

"We couldn't have known..."

"That'sh bullshit and you know it!" Murderface snarled. "You could have shaid shomething! He was closhe to you, you could've shaid shomething!"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Charles's voice was high-pitched in anger. 

Murderface fell silent again. Charles sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm under quite a bit of stress—"

"You're not the only one! You're not fucking alone in thish. He wash my bandmate. He wash my fucking brother and he'sh dead and it'sh your fault!" There were angry tears beading in Murderface's tired eyes. 

"Murderface—"

"You wanted me to talk? Well, I'm talking! What are you doing? Schitting in your fucking chair filing papersh? You fucking robot, don't you undershtand?..."

"What do you mean?"

"He'sh dead," Murderface said quietly. 

"William, I...I know."

"Well, are you going to fucking do anything about it?" Murderface said. 

"We can't 'do anything,'" Charles said. "He's gone. And I'm not 'filing papers.' I'm making arrangements for the funeral."

"I'm not coming to hish fucking funeral," Murderface said. "You can't make me."

"You have something of an obligation to."

"I'm not fucking coming! Toki wouldn't even have wanted a funeral! All thoshe people gathered around pretending like they knew him. He wouldn't want that. It'sh fucking morbid."

"Well, then, it should be right up your alley." 

Murderface hung up. The phone immediately started ringing again. He ignored it. 

~~~

Murderface felt someone sit on the edge of his bed. He huddled further into the cave of blankets he'd made, took a drink of whiskey and continued scrolling through creepypastas on his Dethphone. 

Someone poked him on the back. He edged away from the unwelcome touch. "Willy, babe, it's me," came a high-pitched voice. 

William didn't answer. 

"Dick," said the voice. "Dick Knubbler. Your producer. Remember me?" 

"Unfortunately," William slurred. 

"Good. You're alive. Get up," said Dick. 

"Fuck you."

"It smells like piss in here. At least get up so the Klokateers can change the sheets, and take a shower. You've been in here fucking forever."

"Fuck you, Dick," Murderface repeated. 

"Oh my God, did you piss the bed?...You did. You wet the bed. God, you're pathetic."

"Shut the fuck up!" Murderface yelled. "Leave me alone!"

"Come on!" Dick said. Murderface recoiled from the light and cold as the blankets were whipped off of him. He buried his face in his hands, smearing tear trails. "Get in the shower!" 

With great effort, William drew himself to his feet and punched Dick in the jaw. It made a satisfying thudding sound. Dick stumbled back against the wall and groaned. Murderface stood there and panted. He was wearing nothing but his boxers. 

Dick sighed. "The shower's running."

Murderface walked through the heaps of trash from food and dirty clothes to the bathroom. He stepped under the hot steamy water, not bothering to undress, and sighed. He slumped against the wall. 

Dick followed him in. He examined his face in the mirror, chameleon robot eyes zooming in, gently poking at his jaw. 

"Can I get shome fucking privacshy?" Murderface said. 

"I'm not leaving you alone," Dick said. 

Murderface sighed. 

"You've been in your room for four days," Dick continued. He opened his mouth and poked the sore spot with his finger, showing wonky teeth. "You have to take care of yourself. I mean...I know you're not feeling so hot, I can dig it. But you can't do this to yourself. Wash your hair."

Murderface squirted shampoo into his hand and began listlessly rubbing it into greasy, frizzy hair. "Why won't you leave me alone? Jusht let me be. I don't want to think about thingsh."

Dick shrugged. 

"I..." Murderface bit his lip. "I wish I'd known him better."

"I do too."

"I don't feel too great," the bassist said. God, that was the understatement of the century. 

"You can't turn back the hands of time, Willy," Dick said. "It's okay. You'll be okay, man."

"They wouldn't have been shad if I died." Murderface rinsed his hair and took a drink. He'd brought the bottle into the shower with him. 

"They probably would," Dick replied. 

"Maybe for a bit, but they'd forget." He stared at the dirty swirling water going down the drain. "I know it. I wash never really one of them. If it'd been me who'd killed myshelf they wouldn't have batted an eye."

"Maybe."

Murderface looked up. Tears were mingling with the water dripping down his face. Dick looked over at him. 

"You're not exactly easy to befriend," Dick said. He turned back to the mirror. 

"Fuck you."

"Well, it's true. I'm not either. If I killed myself I don't think anyone would care." He almost sounded proud of the fact. "I don't have any friends. I don't talk to my family."

"I'm famoush. I'm shupposhed to have lotsh of friendsh." He soaped his chest up. The underpants dropped to the shower floor. "People are shupposhed to love me. They loved Toki. Not me. I think I'm gonna shtart ushing heroin."

"I've been down that road. Trust me, it doesn't help anything in the long run," Dick said. 

"Don't fucking tell me what to do."

"I'll tell ya what I want to." Finished the minute examination of his face, the producer perched on the edge of the sink and toyed with a strand of lank blond hair. "And I'm telling ya, you got to get back on your feet. I booked you an appointment with my therapist."

"Dick! Fuck you! I don't need no therapy!"

"Listen! I'm helping you."

"No you're not! You're jusht being an asshhole!"

"Willy, baby," Dick said, "I know what's best for you. I know it hurts. But if you don't get help it's never gonna stop." The green of his eyes faded a bit, went misty. "I wish someone woulda dragged me into therapy. I wish I knew what I know now...Anyway, just trust me." 

"Whatever." Murderface rinsed the suds off his body and leaned against the shower wall. "I don't even care." He looked up and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "He'sh dead. There'sh no more Dethklok. And there'sh no more me." He peeked out behind the shower curtains at Dick, who was filing his nails. "Might ash well fucking kill myshelf now, get it over with. I'm nothing without thish band."

"You don't know what's going to happen," Dick said. "You're just making assumptions."

"Yeah, and they're right. They're accurate asshumptionsh."

"You're creating, uh, a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Good, whatever," Murderface said. "They won't missh me if I wash gone, they wouldn't care if it wash me. I...I'm going to shlit my wrishtsh. And they'll find my dead body and they won't care. And neither will I. Becaushe I'll be dead." He sniffled and blinked his teary eyes shut. "I never realizhed how little I meant to them until now. Ishn't that funny? It'sh not the kind of thing you think about. But it kind of...hurtsh."

"I'm gonna tell you something," Dick said. "Nathan is in complete denial. Pickles is drinking himself to death. Skwisgaar smashed his guitar to pieces yesterday. But I came for you, okay? You're the only one I've checked in on." He lit a cigarette. Smoke curled up and mingled with the steam. "So think about that, okay? Just remember that when you think no one cares about you, when you think they wouldn't miss you." His voice cracked. 

"Are you...are you crying?" 

"No, I'm not. Get outta the fucking shower, Willy."

Murderface slowly turned the water off. Dick threw a towel at him, over the curtain. He buried his face in it and breathed in the clean smell. 

"I care about you," Murderface said gruffly. "I would missh you if you were gone. You're...you're, uh, a pretty good friend."

"Thanks. Now don't make this any more gay. Come on, put some clothes on."

They went back into Murderface's room. Klokateers had changed his sheets and cleaned some of the garbage up, and there were some clothes lying out on the bed. He pulled on underpants and a T-shirt and he crawled between the sheets. He was so tired. 

"Um..." Dick stood around awkwardly and smoked. "I just want you to know, all this you're feeling is normal. But I know you're strong, okay, and I know you'll be okay. And I'm sure Toki would have told you that too."

Murderface wiped his eyes with the blanket, and let out a tiny, muffled sob. 

Dick cocked his head, robot eyes making his expression unreadable. "You know, I don't really like being down in the studio alone," he said quietly. "It would be nice to have someone to hang out with."

"You can shtay here if you really want to," Murderface said. 

Dick sat down on the bed beside him, silent. Murderface could feel Dick's gaze combing over him, over the stubble and messy hair, and the scars crisscrossing over his forearms. He didn't say anything, and Murderface was glad. 

~~~

He was in fourth grade, and his palms were stinging from scraping against the pavement. One of the older boys had pushed him over on his way into school. It was a reflex, it had required no thought to shove Murderface down and plow over him when he was in your way. 

Murderface got up and swallowed back tears. He picked gravel out of his bloodied skin and went to class. 

At lunch he stared down at his desk and bit his lip as a couple older kids jeered at him. He tried to ignore it and concentrated on a book. It was supposed to be at his grade level, but he was having a hard time making out some of the longer words. He knew his teacher didn't really expect it of him, but he wanted to try and do well this year. 

The teacher stood in the corner of the room and looked vaguely concerned. After the bell rang, she gathered all the kids into a circle. They chattered, confused. William had a bad feeling about this...

"William?" the teacher said. "Come here, would you?"

He stepped forward as if in a dream. All eyes were on him. This was his worst nightmare. 

The teacher clapped her hand down on his shoulder. "It has come to my attention that some of you are excluding William," she said. 

Murderface's ears burned. He tried to cover his face. 

"Why would you do this to one of your fellow students?" the teacher said sharply. "Does anyone have a reason for this?"

The kids were silent, until one said "Because he's ugly!"

The other kids laughed. Murderface gnawed on his lip and tried to pull his bangs down to cover his face. 

"And he smells weird," another one of the kids said.

"And he's FAT!" 

"I heard he wet his pants last year on the swing set!"

"EW!"

When the teacher had calmed the kids down and reprimanded them, she looked around and saw that Murderface wasn't in the group any more. He was sitting in the corner, the book was in his hands. He stared at the meaningless words on the page, then sighed and dropped it to the carpeted floor. He supposed that there was no use in trying. He was a lost cause.

~~~

People came and went through Mordhaus. Murderface paid no attention to them. He was lost in his room, alone where no one could hurt him. He was constantly playing loud music on the stereo; not Dethklok, that was still painful, but anything else. Sometimes Dick would come and sit with him. Sometimes they talked about TV shows, sometimes they talked about music, and sometimes they talked about Toki, which always ended with one or both of them in tears. Sometimes they didn't talk at all. 

Murderface had let Dick drag him out of the house to go to therapy, which was tolerable. He didn't really usually like opening up to strange people, but he'd been in a self-pitying mood lately. He'd gone a couple times now. After they would get drunk and pass out in his room, pleasantly numb, while listening to more loud music. 

They were in Murderface's room, sitting on the bed. Murderface was sprawled across the bed, legs up against the wall, feet in the air. Dick was curled into a ball at the other end of the bed. He was reading jokes off his phone. Dick had a weird and macabre sense of humor, but Murderface was weird and macabre, so it was fine. 

Charles came in without knocking just as Dick said "How many dead babies does it take to paint a wall?"

"Good afternoon," Charles said awkwardly. He wrinkled his nose at the stinging smell of pot. 

"Hey," Dick said. "What's up, babe?"

"I was wondering—"

"Wait," Murderface said. "Let him finish the joke. How many, Dick?"

Dick's robot eyes swiveled toward the phone screen. "Depends on how hard you throw them," he read. The two cackled. 

"That remindsh me of another one," Murderface said. "Have you ever tried Ethiopian cuisine?"

Dick shook his head. 

"Well, neither have they," Murderface said with a gap-toothed grin. 

Charles sighed. "That's...that's really, ah, not funny at all."

"Well, dark humor is like food," said Dick, "not everyone gets it."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's—I'm not arguing with you, okay? I wanted to ask you, William, if you wanted to go out and see a movie with the boys tonight. They asked if you would come."

"What, for me?" Murderface said. "Like, shpecifically?" 

Charles nodded. "Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are, after how you conducted yourself—"

"Don't," Dick said. "Don't."

"Well, would you?"

Murderface thought for a minute. He hadn't really talked to the guys ever since...ever since he'd found out about Toki. "Maybe," he said.

And "maybe" was the best he could do. 

~~~

He'd asked to be alone tonight. Dick had seen that look in his eyes and understood. The producer was off at a seedy dive bar, and Murderface was walking out through the cold evening air and the darkness. 

He found his destination and stared down at the freshly turned earth. The grave was covered in flowers from bereaved fans. 

The stone read HERE LIES TOKI WARTOOTH 1990—2015. Murderface read the words over and over again. It didn't say nearly enough. Toki's life could fill encyclopedias. He hadn't seemed complicated, but when Murderface thought about him lately he was realizing that there was more to him than his candy-coated surface. 

Murderface sat down in front of the gravestone and sighed. This was horribly awkward. "Hey," he said quietly. "Hey, Toki, it'sh me. Murderfacshe. The basshist." He sighed again. This was stupid. It was so cold and damp out... "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm here anywaysh. Sho, uh, hi."

He thought about what to say next. "Sho...we missh you a lot. I wish I could've got to know you better. I never really got the chancshe. But I hope you're happy, wherever you are...I know you kind of blamed yourshelf for your dad, uh, dying. But it really washn't your fault. Beshidesh, he wash a huge dick." He wiped his nose with the back of one chilly hand. "Fuck. I promished myshelf I wouldn't cry...you fucked me up a bit, okay? I mean, I shtill think they wouldn't have misshed me if it had been me. It should've been me. But I don't blame you." 

He stared at the grave. It was so quiet out here in the darkness. 

"Anywaysh, I brought you thish," he said. He put something down on the grave. It was a little model airplane, glued together somewhat sloppily by inexperienced hands. "It wash a real bitch to put together. All thoshe tiny little bitsh. I hope you like it, uh, even though you're dead and you probably don't even know I'm here." He swiped at his eyes frantically. "I'm gonna go get drunk now. But I'll be back, okay? Bye."

He turned around and shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away. Dick was waiting for him at the bar.


End file.
